


greedy

by freakydeakymoonmagic



Series: shy of conflict of any kind [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (in sports), Fukuoka, M/M, Yuuri's a bit of a wild card, modeled after the 2013-2014 Grand Prix Final, performance anxiety, the eros is real, written before watching episode 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8730313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakydeakymoonmagic/pseuds/freakydeakymoonmagic
Summary: Yuuri needs, Yuuri takes.





	

Don’t misunderstand – Yuuri’s normally a meek guy. Shy of any kind of conflict.

Hesitant to touch. Careful with his words.

Viktor pretty much ruins that, for life.

Yuuri turns around on the ice just before warm ups for the short program begin. It’s the Grand Prix Final and he shouldn’t be able to believe he’s here, but he can. It feels as though he belongs here, somehow, despite every indication that he doesn’t. As though this is his place. Before, every moment spent on the ice had felt like living on borrowed time.

Viktor is tapping him on the shoulder. Like he can’t just say Yuuri’s name and have him come running. Like they aren’t two feet away. So Yuuri turns around and says, “Yes?” before he even knows what Viktor’s asking of him.

“I don’t want you to worry, Yuuri,” Viktor begins, “I want you to enjoy yourself out there. Don’t pay attention to what everyone else is doing. Just let yourself fly free and you’ll do beautifully.”

He certainly has a way of making platitudes seem heartfelt. It’s almost annoying. It almost makes Yuuri want to smash it all open, tear up that charming veneer with his teeth, rip a big old hole right down the middle with his bare fists. Almost makes him angry. But that’s silly; Viktor’s only being coachly. It’s also been proven that competitions put Yuuri in a very strange headspace, so he can’t quite trust his reactions here. So Yuuri narrows his eyes as little as he can and nods his head.

“Yuuri? Is something wrong?” Oh great, now he looks concerned. That little crinkle on his forehead’s cropped up, which happens when the eyebrows beneath it bow in distress. The crinkle makes him look older, but the look in his eyes, that guileless worry, makes him look unbearably young.

“No.” Yuuri means to turn away, means to disengage responsibly, but Viktor latches onto him like an eel, grasping his wrists. Their arms rest heavily together on the barrier of the rink. “What is it, Yuuri? Tell me, please.”

It’s probably the please that does it. He snaps.

“You’re making me crazy. Why do you have to say my name so much? Why do you have to say it like that? Like you – like you love having it in your mouth? Huh? Why do you do this me?”

The words rush out of him. And there’s no excuse. It isn’t time for his performance yet and Viktor hasn’t done anything wrong, so it’s just plain inappropriate. Unprofessional. This is normally the sort of thing they do right before he goes on, to dispel performance anxiety. An exercise in shedding one personality and donning another. A team effort. But this is not that. There is no underlying purpose. This is plainly how he feels.

And it’s not that he wasn’t stating honest truths every time they’d done this sort of thing before now. It’s that this time, stating them frankly isn’t about setting up the performance to go as well as it possibly can. Stripped of their utility, the words make Yuuri feel aggressive. Like a jerk, or a bully. He looks away, is about to apologize, when—

“Wow.” The stunned intonation makes him look back. Viktor seems almost pleasantly surprised.

“That was pretty dirty, Yuuri. I’m impressed.”

Yuuri can feel the blood flooding his face. He kicks at the ice a little, to soothe himself. 

“Can I please go skate now?” Viktor pulls his hands away with evident reluctance. “Okay.” There’s a gloved thumb and forefinger sliding against Yuuri’s chin, tilting it up. “But you should know . . . “

Yuuri might as well be balanced on the edge of a cliff.

“You can talk to me like that any time.” Viktor looms in closer, close enough that Yuuri can smell the brisk sharpness of his mouthwash. “I like it.”

Yuuri feels faint. That’s definitely not a good thing to feel near show time, but Viktor has a way of turning negatives into positives. Of turning the world inside out.

 

 

In a word, the short program goes great.

It’s probably because the ante’s been upped. The ante of the egregious things he does and says to Viktor before he goes out on ice, that is. He’s spent the last half hour stretching, jogging, trying to block out the rest of the world with the music in his ears as loud as it will go. It worked, for the most part. His preparations lose some their franticness every time they do this.

So, he’s got his skate protectors off. He’s got his feet on the ice. He’s got the gel in his hair, the practice in his bones, the looseness in his limbs. The gleaming black suit. Ready to go, except. Yuuri isn’t quite in the zone. Mentally. After his outburst, he’d been hoping to avoid making any more presumptuous proclamations today. That’s not to be.

He needs this.

“Viktor.” Yuuri’s front bumps into the border of the rink. He cups a hand on the ball of Viktor’s shoulder through layers and layers of dress clothes. The tan wool is softly scratchy on the exposed fingers of his hand. They both know this is where things always start to get a little unpredictable, these finals moments before he really hits the ice, before he's left all alone out there to sink or swim.

“Yes?” Viktor looks like he's waiting for a punch. Or a miracle. Or something. Whatever. It doesn’t matter what Viktor wants. It’s not about that – this has never been about that. It’s about letting Viktor know, in no mean terms, exactly what it is Yuuri wants from him. That’s the rush. The unapologetic demand for acknowledgement. Nothing more, nothing less. Say it, skate, pretend it never happened. The results speak for themselves.

This is the only time and place where Yuuri has full prerogative to act on urges without questioning them. So when his body tells him pull Viktor closer, to brush his cheek along Yuuri’s until his lips tickle the short hairs running down before an ear. He listens to it.

“All those people out there, who hate me for stealing you away. Viktor, I you need to know: I live to make their blood boil.” Breath hitches against Yuuri’s ear. He can feel eyelashes fluttering against his skin. A sensual sort of intrigue seeps into his pores. This is truly a high. 

This is normally the part where he skates away. But the words have become a kind of bodily urge and he’s not allowed to question them.

“I’m going to give it to you better than you’ve ever had it.” The cheek against his is warming rapidly, a jolt in the chest so near his own. “I’ll make it so that you never want to leave. So that you never want anyone else. Viktor, I’ll ruin you.” 

Yuuri lets go. 

He coasts to the center of the rink, arms out. They feel like honest to god wings. He’s still high. When the music starts, later on, he’ll remember starting out with a vague sort of strategy, a certain set of defined goals. That fades. Yuuri doesn’t lose himself in the performance so much as the performance temporarily absorbs his entire being.

Later, he’s sure that he must have skated consciously, acted with intent. It was probably just nerves or some kind of performance-induced fugue, the forgetting.

In all the most superficial ways, it’s like the free skate during the Cup of China. But that had been a controlled sort of thing. Getting lost somewhere around the middle and having tons of fun doing it. And injuring himself. This. This was a whole other animal. This was like being transported out of his own body, left steering on an otherworldly autopilot.

The next thing he knows is, he’s panting, locked in the finishing pose. Around him, the stadium is uproar. It’s pandemonium. People are hanging out of their boxes, screaming like the place is on fire, throwing all kinds of things out on the ice. He’s not sure if this is good or bad.

Yuuri turns to Viktor, starts to skate over. The expression on Viktor’s face tells him enough. He has the look of a man who hasn’t breathed in about three minutes. It’s a relief when he’s finally close enough to shout, “I have no idea what just happened!”

Something in the tremble of Viktor’s shoulders makes him seem just this side of hysterical; a slight sheen over his eyes. He huffs an overwrought little laugh, more movement of air than sound. “Only good things, Yuuri. Only the very best.”

The briefest walk across the floor from rink to kiss and cry is wobbly. And loud. Yuuri suspects he may be going into mild shock. They sit, thank god. Viktor’s a pillar at his side. There’s the screen for the judge’s results on the right and a smaller one on the left, replaying a highlight reel of his performance. What he sees there is damning: the movements are nearly liquid, the quads look like someone else has possessed Yuuri’s body. But it’s look on his face that alarms him. It’s this blissful open-mouthed thing. Oh, the horror. His eyes are closed when they ought to be open and wide open when they really ought to be closed.

He looks like he’s having the time of his life, like someone dancing in an amorphous dream. The kind you wake up crying from, knowing you’ve already forgotten.

His arm is pointing at the screen, his mouth saying, “Is that me?”

Viktor wraps an arm around his shoulders, a secret knowing in his eye. “Yes, Yuuri.”

“Wow,” Yuuri says. “Pretty dirty.” He doesn’t mean to make Viktor giggle, but he’s glad that he does.

The results appear on screen, yellowish gold against a deceptively mild gradation of red.

116.40 

It’s like being hit by a lightning bolt. There’s a second where they both just sit there, staring numbly at the screen. Then the screaming starts up again, a deep howl ripping through the hollow of the building. Viktor’s whole body is moving up and down ecstatically, but Yuuri slings himself across him diagonally, loops his arms around his neck and holds on for dear life. Yanked around like a rag doll, shocked tears blurring everything.

He’s just broken the world record.

People are shouting crazily, and fans and journalists are crowding in, and there are probably microphones and cameras everywhere, but just for this one moment, the thing Yuuri is most sure of is that he absolutely has to hide his face in Viktor’s neck. He just needs it.  


And Viktor lets him take.


End file.
